Revolution
by iColor With Crayons
Summary: In honor of the upcoming 4th of July: A Revolutionary War AU. John is a patriot, Sherlock is a Red Coat officer. Sherlock catches John stealing supplies from his camp in the dead of night and an unexpected relationship arises. *Warning: some people die, but John and Sherlock are okay.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Watson, what the hell are you doing?" Greg Lestrade hissed as John slipped on his boots. John turned around and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He caught sight of Greg sitting upright and rubbing his eyes.

"Going for a walk." John lied, feeling the ground for his misplaced dagger.

"A walk?" Greg whispered incredulously. "It's the middle of the night and there's a camp full of Red Coats not two miles away."

John knew that. John knew that perfectly well. He had been spying on the camp for weeks now. The camp consisted of nearly 25 soldiers all commanded by a young officer who appeared to be incredibly inexperienced. They served no actual threat to John and Greg's regiment.

John's intentions on this particular night were much more than spying. He had observed the patterns of the troop camped just a mile and a half from him and had every right to believe that they had since migrated to a new camp. They would be gone for at least a night or two. While they were gone, John Watson was going to rob them blind.

"Relax, Lestrade. I know what I'm doing."

Greg snorted dubiously. "What'll I tell General Sholto when he notices you're gone?"

John shrugged and grinned. "Tell him I went to visit your wife. Someone's got to attend to her now that the butcher's been killed."

"Hope the bloody Red Coats catch you. It'd serve you right." Greg mumbled, shaking his head.

John just smiled as he crept out of the camp site. He should have felt bad about lying to his best friend, but he didn't. He wasn't doing anything wrong, after all. He was just stealing a few supplies from the bloody King's army while they were off playing toy soldier. He would share the spoils of his victory when he returned.

He walked the familiar route to the Red Coats' site, careful to avoid making any unnecessary noise. An owl hooted its warning overhead.

 _Even the fucking owls are tories_ , John thought to himself with a smirk. _Though they might not be if old George could find a way to tax them, too._

When he stumbled upon the familiar sight of twelve tents neatly placed around a firepit, John paused. He was fairly certain that the site was abandoned, but he did not want to take any chances. If the Red Coats caught sight of him, they would know that there were more Patriots somewhere in the woods.

After a few minutes of waiting and listening, John crept along the row of tents. He headed straight for the largest tent - the officer's tent. There would undoubtedly be food and clothing lying around there.

John turned to survey the camp site one last time before ducking between the tent flaps and creeping in. It was even darker inside of the tent than it was outside. John suddenly wished very much that he hadn't traded his last pack of matches to Mike Stamford. The extra pair of socks that he had gained from the trade were doing him little good at present.

With a sigh, John felt around the tent for supplies. They needed coats - though preferably not red ones - they needed food other than the preserved fruit that they had been subsisting on for entirely too long, and they could certainly use liquor. John would have been perfectly content with just the liquor, in all honesty.

"I think you may have the wrong tent." A dark voice suddenly drawled from behind him.

John's heart tried to leap out of his chest. He instinctively placed a hand over the area to prevent its escape before whipping around to face his opponent.

It was the inexperienced officer that John had seen handing out commands so many times before. He wasn't quite as tall as John had thought he was, but he still managed to tower over him. John could only stare up at him with wild eyes.

"Mm, a little late to pledge your allegiance to the King, isn't it?" The officer asked in a predatory tone, nodding towards where John's hand was clutching at his heart. John hastily dropped his hand.

"I'd never." He growled, standing up and feeling for his dagger.

"Hm." The officer didn't seem particularly concerned with John or his dagger. "If you aren't here to betray the patriots, then pray tell, what brings you to my tent so late at night? Judging from your behavior, you haven't come to kill me or my men. You've ignored the parchment that my second in command decided to leave in the open, so you haven't come as a spy, either. Are you acting independently?" He cocked his head to the side and watched John curiously. There wasn't a hint of a threat in his voice. There wasn't a hint of fear, either. He seemed completely at ease. John replaced his dagger in his pocket and dropped his hand to his side.

"I came for supplies." He admitted.

"Is that right?" The officer wondered. He strode across the length of the tent and pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. He lit a candle. "Sorry, you don't mind, do you? My father always told me that it was impossibly rude to carry on a conversation without making eye contact and it is a bit difficult to make eye contact in the dark."

John stared at the officer uncertainly. The light revealed that he did not have a single weapon with him. John was certain that the light also revealed the glint of his dagger, but the officer did not seem to pay it any mind. His posture was relaxed and his eyes were on John's face.

John took a moment to look the officer over for a moment.

He was tall enough, John supposed, and certainly filled his uniform out nicely. Not like the lot he had waiting back for him at his own camp. His hair consisted of wild curls that looked completely out of place atop the face that looked so completely serene. His eyes were almost cat-like and the color of the sea. His cheekbones were severe and aristocratic enough to make John want to roll his eyes and punch him in the face. And yet, he didn't. He just stood there, waiting for the officer to say something else.

"So you've come for supplies," The officer prompted. "Is Washington not feeding you?"

"There's only so much food, you know." John answered in the most surly tone he could muster. "We don't all have colonies to steal from."

"Steal?" The officer echoed in a bemused tone. "I would hardly consider it _stealing_. King George owns these colonies. Everything within them belongs to him."

"It's highway robbery." John insisted.

"And what exactly do you consider this?" The officer wondered, arching an eyebrow at John and smirking. He was referring to John's own version of highway robbery.

John scowled. "A necessary evil."

"Ah." The officer nodded. "I suppose in some ways, you are correct. Stealing will be necessary for you if you have any hope of surviving the winter. Your entire army looks thin and sickly. I doubt that any of you will last much longer."

"We'll last as long as we've got to." John asserted.

"I'm glad to hear it." The officer remarked.

"Why's that? Got a taste for the war?"

"On the contrary; I have never felt more out of place in my entire life."

"I've noticed."

"Have you?"

"It's not very hard to see."

The officer smirked. "Clever you."

"I'm sorry, why haven't you had me arrested yet?" John asked, unable to stand whatever cat-and-mouse game this officer was trying to play. "You've caught me in your tent and I've confessed to being a patriot and trying to steal from you. Shouldn't you whisk me off to be hanged or something?"

The officer shrugged, still smirking. "Probably, but that's a bit less interesting, isn't it? Anyway, I doubt that I have the manpower to subdue you. All of my men are away for a weekend of training, as luck would have it. Or was it something other than luck? You seemed awfully confident that you were alone when you entered this tent."

"Thought everybody'd left."

"Mm, you are clever. A rare quality to find in that ragged army of yours. Are you sure that you won't pledge allegiance to King George? I think I would quite like having you in my regiment."

"I'd rather be hanged."

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary. So many men are already dying - letting one live won't change the outcome of the war. Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself? I think I might enjoy your company while my regiment is away."

"Do you think that I'm your prisoner?" John demanded thickly.

The officer shook his head and waved his hand in the direction of the open tent flaps. "I think nothing of the sort. You're free to go whenever you'd like. It's clear that you already knew where the camp was before tonight. There is no doubt in my mind that your accomplices share your knowledge. Killing you won't preserve the secrecy of our location. Spending entire nights alone in the middle of a continent that loathes you just gets a bit exhausting. Pleasant conversations become strangely appealing after a while."

"I won't tell you anything about my troops."

"Good. This whole war is boring me."

"Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes. And might I ask who you are?"

"John."

"No last name?"

"Is one necessary?"

"Not at all. It's a pleasure to meet you, John."

* * *

 ** _Hey, look, my first chapter! I know that I have other fanfics in the works right now and this is hastily written and the dialogue is 100% not true to the time period, but I was sitting around thinking about the fourth of July, which turned into thinking about a Revolutionary War AU, which turned into an inexplicable need to write it before I exploded. The good news is that I've already finished it. All six chapters exist and will be posted at some point before or on July 4th. I hope you enjoy it! :)_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 _It's just food. I'm just hungry_ , John told himself every night that he slipped out of his own regiment's camp site and wandered into Sir Sherlock Holmes' tent.

There in the tent, Sherlock would supply him with as much food as he could stomach while John talked about the banalities of his life before the war. Sherlock seemed particularly interested in John's profession as a doctor. John didn't mind telling Sherlock about his patients in exchange for food and liquor. He was relatively certain that Sherlock viewed him as something close to a stray cat that kept coming around for food.

If John _was_ a stray cat, he was feral. The first few times that John ventured into the enemy camp, he felt damn near ready to jump out of his skin. He couldn't shake the feeling that Sherlock's kindness was some sort of trap. He eyed each drink given to him suspiciously, wondering if it contained some sort of poison or possibly even a drug that would make him reveal information about his comrades just a mile and a half away. He refused to stand too near to Sherlock for fear of being taken by surprise. He just wanted to soothe his hungry stomach and get back to his regiment as quickly as was possible.

Sherlock was patient, though. Each time that John snuck into his camp, Sherlock managed to keep the anxious Patriot in the tent for just a bit longer than his last visit. He began sending John back with food and articles of clothing for his regiment. Whenever a subordinate requested a meeting while Sherlock was entertaining, he assisted John in either escaping or hiding in a safe enough location. He told John more about himself than was probably safe.

Oddly enough, they became friends.

"Y'know," John grumbled as he snuck into Sherlock's tent in the dead of night one bitterly cold evening, "Visiting with you would be a lot simpler if you would leave George and his band of robbers. My men'd probably accept you after a bit of training."

"Tempting as it sounds, my brother would call for my execution the moment that I left the loyalists."

"Mycroft, innit?"

"That's the one." Sherlock's mouth twitched into a slight smile as he handed John a plate containing some sort of cooked beef and two slices of bread. John accepted it gratefully. "Besides, if I were to join the patriots, how would you expect me to feed you and your comrades?"

"We'd just have to find some other officer to scam."

"Are you scamming me? I was unaware of that particular detail."

"Wouldn't be much of a scam if you knew." John grinned despite the fact that his mouth was full of bread.

"Well now you've quite given yourself away."

"Shit." John didn't actually sound very disappointed.

"Indeed."

"So Mycroft," John began, his voice muffled by the food stuffed in his mouth, "Tell me a bit more about him. Is he an officer, too?"

"No. He's, ah, closer to the King."

"Ah. You've got connections, then."

"You could say that."

"That explains it."

"What does 'it' explain?"

"How you managed to get your hands on that bloody officer's uniform."

"Oh, you think that nepotism played a hand in this?"

John laughed. "I _know_ that it did. You're a rubbish officer."

"I wouldn't go that far." Sherlock protested.

"You're feeding a bloody patriot in your tent! How much worse could you possibly get? Would you like to loan us a few of your weapons? Maybe a few of your men?" John teased, shaking his head and laughing as Sherlock's face turned an endearing shade of crimson.

"Well, this scenario isn't exactly black and white, is it?" Sherlock argued. "It isn't as though I was thinking to myself 'wouldn't it be delightful if I could just make friends with a patriot during the war'? You took me by surprise."

"You could've killed me before you ever said a word to me. You had your musket sitting by the side of your tent." John reasoned.

"Are you telling me that I should have killed you when I had the chance? You should be thanking me for all that I've done for you!" Sherlock reminded him.

John shrugged. "I never said I wasn't grateful, I'm just telling you why you're a rubbish officer."

"Humph." Sherlock sulked. "I think that you might be just a bit biased. My men happen to think that I am a capital officer. If you saw me on the field, you might think the same."

"If I saw you on the field, I think I'd be worrying about other things, mate."

Both of the men were silent for a moment. They had never talked about what they might do if they saw each other in a battle. They both willfully ignored the fact that it was not only entirely possible, but very likely given their proximities to one another. Both of them liked to believe that they were capable of remaining loyal to their chosen sides without the bias of their friendship, but neither was certain. Neither one knew if they were capable of killing the other.

"D'you think that we'll…" John tried to pose the question. Sherlock gave him a sharp look.

"This is a war, John." His voice turned harsh, almost condescending. "We'll do what we have to."

John didn't like being spoken to as though he were foolish for even considering the question, especially not by a pratt who hardly deserved the uniform he was wearing. His mouth tightened into a scowl. Sherlock's face softened a bit.

"Neither of us have much of a choice." He reminded John in an almost apologetic tone. "I've got my brother to answer to and you have your morals. Those forces are very much out of our hands, I'm afraid."

"Hm," John grunted, distracting himself with a piece of bread. "One of these days, I'll get you to cut ties with that King of yours. You'd like independence, you know. You wouldn't have to answer to anybody at all."

"That does sound a bit nice." Sherlock admitted.

"A bit? It's going to be fucking heaven on Earth." John proclaimed grandly. "I'm going to buy a bunch of land up North, become a doctor at one of those incredible hospitals like the ones you've got back in London, and eat an entire ham for breakfast every single morning."

"What about a family?"

"A family?"

"Do you plan on having a family?"

John considered Sherlock's question for a moment before shrugging and taking a massive bite out of his second slice of bread. "I don't know. I guess so. Seems only logical. What about you?"

"I doubt it."

"Why's that?" John cocked his head as he looked Sherlock over carefully. He imagined that Sherlock would have the perfect family: a beautiful wife and two beautiful children. They would have enough money to get the children the best education that England had to offer and would likely want for nothing. For some reason, the very thought of it made John's heart hurt. He chalked it up to jealousy; he wanted what Sherlock had.

"I doubt there is a woman in England who is capable of tolerating me for more than an hour's time. Spending a lifetime with me is a condemnation that seems to tempt no one."

"What're you talking about? You're not so bad. A bit pudding-headed, but some women go for that sort of thing."

"I think I might prefer to be alone." Sherlock confessed.

John grinned. "Can hardly fault you for that one, mate."

Sherlock returned John's smile hesitantly. John suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable; almost like his skin was crawling with lice. It was entirely possible that it was. Lice spread among the patriot militia like a wildfire.

In an effort to distract himself from the uncomfortable sensation taking hold of him, John sought out a new topic.

"Why is it that you've named your horse Redbeard?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Where do you keep getting this stuff from?" Greg asked a few weeks after John's first interaction with Sherlock. John had taken to bringing things back to camp and sharing them with his friends. Greg usually got first pick of the stuff.

"I nick 'em from the Bloodybacks up the road." John replied, nodding in the general direction of the Red Coats' camp. "Their commanding officer is absolute shit. He thinks they've just got a raccoon problem."

Greg shook his head. "I dunno, mate. Seems a bit dangerous."

"Well, there is a war on, you know. Everything is a bit dangerous."

"Just be careful, yeah? We already had to bury ten good men this year. I don't want to have to dig another grave for you. Even if it will be a smaller one."

"Fuck off." John pretended that he was going to take back the biscuit in Greg's hand. Greg swatted his hand away and smiled.

"Oi, get it over and kiss each other already." Mike Stamford grumbled from where he was trying to sleep a few feet away. John flipped him the middle finger with a toothy grin.

Greg smirked to himself and shook his head as they both settled in to get to sleep.

* * *

"UP!" General Sholto's frantic voice caused the men to wake with a start, reaching for their bayonets and jumping to their feet. "EVERYBODY UP! THEY'RE COMING."

"Whuthehell?" John slurred as he hastily pulled on his uniform and sought out his bayonet, which was leaning against a nearby tree. "Whusgoinon?"

"The damned Red Coats are on the move. Sholto thinks they're headed for Nelson's regiment. We've got to stop them before they cross the river." Greg explained breathlessly, hopping into his boots before following after General Sholto. John rushed after his regiment, his mind reeling.

He wasn't optimistic enough to convince himself that the Red Coats they were after belonged to a different regiment than Sherlock's. They were the only other troop that John had seen throughout the woods. So he was facing Sherlock as an enemy on the battle field. Right.

 _He knows that this is war_ , John reasoned with himself as the telltale Red uniforms began to come into sight. _He knows that this battle has to end somehow_.

All thoughts of reason evaporated when John caught sight of Sherlock. He was placed atop his favorite horse - Redbeard - and looked terrified. Fear made him look like a child who had gotten himself in over his head. John's chest ached at the sight.

"Watson, we need you!" Mike Stamford called from the other side of the field. He was fighting off two Red Coats at a time. John nodded and dashed over to a group of fighting soldiers. He didn't have time to worry about Sherlock. Sherlock would be fine.

Once he successfully avoided getting shot and stabbed by at least five soldiers and killed a handful himself, John whipped around to see if he was needed elsewhere. He hoped that one of the regiments was on the brink of declaring a retreat - it didn't matter if it was his or Sherlock's - men were dying and at any given moment, he and Sherlock could be next.

In fact, Sherlock _was_ next.

John's eyes widened as he saw Greg move towards Sherlock. Sherlock was turned the other way and would most certainly be impaled on a bayonet in the next minute if John didn't intervene.

Which he wouldn't do.

Sherlock was a Red Coat, he would get what he deserved.

John wasn't going to intervene.

He _couldn't_ intervene.

" _Sherlock!_ " Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_.

Sherlock whipped around and immediately caught side of Greg. Greg turned back to look at John in surprise. That was a mistake. The entire sequence of events was a mistake. John regretted everything.

While John wallowed in premature regret and self-loathing, the inevitable occurred. The blade of Sherlock's bayonet jabbed through Greg's chest. Greg stared up at him in shock for a moment before sinking to his knees. Seconds later, he was lying face-down in the ground. Dead.

"Greg!" John hollered, starting to run towards his best friend. Mike Stamford and a soldier named Hamilton managed to hold him back with some difficulty.

"Let 'im go!" Stamford murmured as John struggled against his grip. "He's gone. That officer'll kill you next if you let him."

John's eyes turned to Sherlock. Sherlock was staring down at Greg with wide eyes. He then looked up at John. He looked shocked. Like he had the right to be shocked. John's blood turned to ice in his veins. He hated him. He hated Sherlock Holmes.

While John was glaring at Sherlock - practically radiating hatred - Sherlock gave the official order to retreat. Sholto did the same. Stamford and Hamilton managed to drag John back into the woods with some difficulty.

Most of the men retreated to their respective camps. John retreated into his mind.

Greg Lestrade had been a good man. He had a wife and three kids. He had plans to buy a farm after the war and earn an honest living. He had been one of John's best - and only - friends. And now he was dead. He was dead because John had gone against everything he stood for and befriended a damned Red Coat officer.

"I'm going to kill him." John vowed as the men sat around the small fire that Mike had built shortly after their return to camp.

Sholto put a hand on John's shoulder and shook his head. "One officer won't make any difference. We've got to think about the entire war, not just a single battle. I think that we had better move tomorrow. We've got to warn Nelson before the Red Coats have another go at him and his men."

John wasn't listening. He didn't care about Nelson or his men. He cared about the fact that his best friend was lying dead, abandoned in a field a few miles away. Greg hadn't even gotten a proper burial.

And it was all because of Sherlock Holmes.

John spent the rest of the evening mulling over his anger and largely ignoring the rest of his regiment. He didn't care about the war anymore. Attaining a new world order seemed completely pointless if it meant losing everyone that mattered in the process.

In simplest terms, John no longer wanted a United States of America.

He wanted Sherlock's head on a silver plate.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

John waited until everyone in his camp had fallen asleep before gathering up his belongings and creeping into the woods. He didn't bother leaving a note to explain himself to Sholto. It would have been a waste of paper; Sholto would know exactly why he left.

Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, no one in the regiment knew that the officer who slaughtered Greg was named Sherlock. No one knew that John had been trying to save Sherlock when he called out that strange combination of letters. No one knew how close John had felt to Sherlock before seeing him plunge his bayonet straight through his best friend's heart.

The very memory caused John to grit his teeth. Whatever feelings he might have felt towards Sherlock were gone now. They were replaced by pure, unadulterated hatred. That was good, though. John would need that hatred when he entered the enemy camp to achieve his one goal: avenging Greg's death.

Once he reached the Red Coats' camp, John hung back in the shadows. There were still men walking around, moving from tent to tent. Almost every single one of them was discussing the conflict that had occurred earlier in the day.

"Didn't know Holmes had it in 'im." One of the soldiers muttered to another.

"Me neither. Makes me think twice about putting all those snakes in his tent." The other remarked with a laugh.

John's eyes narrowed. Hearing these men express their admiration for Sherlock's brutish actions was not helping his homicidal feelings.

"Gentlemen." Sherlock's familiar voice drew the attention of the entire camp. He was standing directly in front of the fire, his posture tall and proud. He looked around, a slight smile crossing his face. John couldn't stand it.

Without thinking, John sprang into action. He bolted through the mass of soldiers hanging about the camp and lunged straight at Sherlock. He didn't even think to grab his bayonet before he moved - he just stuck out his arms and wrapped his hands around Sherlock's throat.

John knocked Sherlock to the ground as he applied as much pressure as possible to his hands. Unfortunately, he didn't inflict very much damage before a swarm of soldiers fell upon him. They pulled him off of Sherlock and threw him onto the ground a few feet away from their commanding officer. One of the soldiers withdrew his sword.

"Stop." Sherlock croaked, his command sounding rather pathetic when given in a raspy tone that was likely the direct result of John's attempt at murder.

"Sir?" The soldier lowered his sword just a fraction and turned to look at Sherlock questioningly. John glared at Sherlock. "The protocol states…"

"I know the protocol." Sherlock growled, struggling to his feet and rubbing his throat in an effort to soothe himself. He met John's hate-filled gaze. John's mouth curved upwards into a sneer when he saw the red fingerprints he had left behind on Sherlock's neck. "My brother wrote it, if you'll recall. As your commanding officer, however, I am instructing you to ignore the protocol. This is one of the Patriots that we encountered earlier. He might have useful information for us. Please restrain him and find accommodations for him."

"Shall we question him, sir?" Another soldier asked uncertainly. John was fairly certain that there was an implication of torture behind the word 'question'.

"Absolutely not." Sherlock objected. It was strange to see him performing in his position of authority. "I will see to the questioning myself. Anderson, inspect the perimeter of the camp to ensure that there are no other patriots waiting to assassinate me. As for the rest of you: return to your tents and consider yourselves extremely lucky that I am not holding you all personally responsible for the injuries that I have sustained this evening."

Two soldiers hoisted John up roughly. They pinned his hands behind his back while another soldier rounded up a rope and bound his hands together. John scowled as he was forced in the direction of the supplies tent.

* * *

"John?" Sherlock's raspy voice called into the tent nearly an hour later.

John, who was sitting on the ground with nowhere to go, glared at the tent opening. The very last thing that he wanted to do was see Sherlock. Especially when he was still alive.

"John." Sherlock entered the tent.

He looked different when he was not standing in front of his men. His shoulders sagged, his mouth tugged downwards, his eyes were cast downwards, and his throat...well, it looked like John had come pretty close to killing him, after all. John's chin jutted out. He refused to feel guilty about his attempted murder.

Sherlock drew a bit closer and sat down on the ground in front of John. John refused to meet his eyes. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh.

"John."

John was getting sick of hearing his name spoken in so many tones. "What?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it. He let out a humorless laugh. "I hardly know where to begin. I suppose I just do not understand the sequence of events that brought us to this particular point in time."

"I think it's pretty clear." John murmured venomously.

Sherlock met John's eyes and sighed again. His shoulders slumped down further. "The battle."

"You killed my best friend."

"Your best friend." Sherlock echoed in a defeated tone, hanging his head. "John, I am sincerely sorry. I had no idea that -"

"Would knowing have made a difference? Or would you have just murdered someone else in my regiment?"

"You killed four of my men."

"You hate your men and they hate you."

Sherlock nodded his head, not bothering to argue. That somehow made John angrier.

They were both silent for a moment.

"Did he have a family?" Sherlock finally asked quietly.

John nodded. "A wife and three kids."

Sherlock cringed. John couldn't tell if it was due to the strain he was putting on his injured throat or because he actually felt some semblance of guilt.

"I'm sorry. I wish that the battle had not happened. I tried everything in my power to avoid any sort of movement, but I received orders and if I had ignored them, my brother would have sent another troop that would not have thought twice about massacring you all."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you hesitate?"

"I ordered my men to remain defensive and avoid any fighting that was not completely vital."

"So they're terrible at instructions, then."

"Your men attacked. What were we to do?" Sherlock demanded, his voice cracking.

"Retreat."

"My brother would have had my head."

"Hm. At least someone would have had it."

"You were really going to kill me, weren't you?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Did I leave room for any doubt?" John asked.

Sherlock touched his throat absent-mindedly. "I suppose that you didn't. I am sincerely sorry that I killed him, John. You must know that."

"Hm." John grumbled.

Sherlock nodded his head, seeming to understand that he was not going to get a more forgiving response. John just stared back at him defiantly.

"I suppose that I had better check on Anderson's progress." Sherlock sighed, standing up and brushing the dirt off of his pants. "I, ah," There wasn't much he could say to John now that he was a prisoner. John would not have a good night, he would not sleep comfortably, he could not visit Sherlock's tent, and he was not looking forward to their next interaction. "I'll look for more suitable accommodations."

"Don't bother." John murmured sulkily. "Won't make a difference to me whether I sleep on a feather bed or in the mud."

Sherlock smiled at him sadly before exiting the tent.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"John? John. _John_!" Sherlock's panicked voice flooded the tent. John cracked his eyes open and looked around the supply tent that had been his home for nearly four days now.

"What?"

"You have to hand over some sort of information about the patriots and swear your allegiance to King George."

John crooked a small smile. "Right."

John had meant to stay angry at Sherlock for the rest of his life, but over the course of his stay in the Red Coats' camp, Sherlock had slowly but surely regained his trust. The officer spent entire evenings in the supply tent listening to John talk about his friendship with Greg, making arrangements for Greg's wife, Molly and their three children, and asking John about the other men in his regiment. John didn't mind supplying the answers. He knew that his regiment was now far away, safely joined with Nelson's regiment. They probably believed him dead.

Once again, John had come to Sherlock in a completely feral state and once again, Sherlock had managed to soothe his nerves and regain his trust.

"John, I am completely serious." Sherlock persisted, plopping down next to John in the dirt.

John looked at him in surprise. It appeared as though he was serious. His eyes were big and wild, his hair was unkempt, and his mouth was set in a rigid line. He looked desperate and terrified, like a cornered animal that might strike at any moment. John raised an eyebrow and leaned away from him.

"I don't understand." He admitted.

"It's Mycroft." Sherlock explained anxiously. "He must have sent a man to watch over me some time ago, I have no idea how I didn't notice. It's so unlike me. I just…" Sherlock let out a frustrated growl. John shifted and winced as the rope-burn he was receiving from his bonds got just a bit worse.

"Sherlock, focus." He instructed. It was a strange position, being a prisoner that gave orders to an officer. "What does Mycroft have to do with anything?"

"He's arriving at camp this afternoon. He wants to interview you. One of my men informed him that I did not follow the protocol and have you executed immediately. I had to say that I kept you alive because you were considering betraying the Patriots. When he interviews you, you must give him some kind of information - useful or not - and pledge your allegiance to the King. It is the only way that he will allow you to live." Sherlock became increasingly agitated as he spoke. John frowned.

"You know that I won't."

"You must." Sherlock insisted, his eyes pleading.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John said, feeling the opposite of sorry.

"John, I need -"

"Sir?" An uncertain voice that must have belonged to a subordinate came from outside the tent. Sherlock sighed and hung his head. John had never seen a man look more miserable in his life.

"Yes?" Sherlock responded, his tone suddenly becoming more forceful.

"Your, erm, your brother has arrived."

"Of course. I will be right there."

John wondered if this would be the last conversation that he would ever have with Sherlock. The thought was somehow more upsetting than the actual idea of dying. He didn't mind dying so much, but never talking to Sherlock again was just so...final. So permanent. His mouth drooped down into a frown.

Sherlock stood up and adjusted his uniform. Evidently Mycroft was someone that he hoped to impress. Before exiting the tent, Sherlock turned to look at John. His expression was the very definition of agony.

"Please." He mouthed.

"I'm sorry." John whispered. This time he meant it.

* * *

"William informs me that you have information for me."

"William?"

"Yes. Sir William Holmes; the officer that you attempted to murder five days ago."

John took a moment to size Mycroft up. He was a bit taller than Sherlock and infinitely more pompous. Although, that might have been an act. Sherlock certainly put on a pompous act around his men. Act or not, John decided almost immediately that he did not like Mycroft.

"Ah. You mean Sherlock. Yeah, I think he might've been a bit mistaken."

"'A bit mistaken'?" Mycroft repeated in a patronizing tone.

"I'm not telling you Jack shit." John proclaimed with a smirk. "And you can tell that King of yours to jump into the Boston Harbor and sink with the tea."

He expected Mycroft to be shocked by his comments. Most loyalists were. Most loyalists would have begged for George's forgiveness for even hearing the remark. Mycroft, on the other hand, just sneered.

"You are quite the patriot, aren't you? I can see why Sherlock has taken an interest in you."

"Taken an interest in me? He's locked me up and threatened to hang me."

"He doesn't express his interest as well as you and I."

John's mouth crooked into a smirk. "'course not. You actually hang people you're interested in, right?"

"It would seem that I have no other choice." Mycroft agreed in an unapologetic voice. "I'm sure that Sherlock will find some other rebel cause to occupy his time."

"Wouldn't be Sherlock if he didn't."

Mycroft didn't seem to like John's familiarity with Sherlock. John didn't care. If Mycroft was going to kill him, he wanted the bastard to know that his brother wasn't going to get away unscathed.

"Well, then. I suppose that I do not have to ask you to reconsider your decision."

"Seems like a waste of time when you've got a noose to prepare."

"So be it. It was a pleasure meeting you, John Watson."

"Wish I could say that the pleasure was mutual."

Mycroft smirked before exiting the tent. John watched his departure smugly. He wasn't feeling very great about his future, but he was very sure of his decision. He couldn't subject himself to Mycroft or his bloody King. It was simply unheard of. He would miss Sherlock, though.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

It was the morning of John's execution and Sherlock was a wreck. It was ironic, really, that John was the one facing his death and yet Sherlock had the audacity to fall apart over it.

 _Selfish bastard_ , John thought, smiling down at Sherlock, whose head was in his lap. He carded his hand through the wilderness of Sherlock's curls. _I'm on death row and he's making me comfort him._

Feeling John's fingers running along his scalp, Sherlock woke up and stretched. He looked around the tent for a moment before meeting John's eyes. His face paled. It seemed that he had forgotten John's approaching expiration date up until this moment. John smiled at him apologetically.

"Speak to Mycroft." Sherlock pleaded for the hundredth time.

"No." John said for the hundredth time.

Sherlock let out a huff of air. He smiled, but it wasn't a smile that warmed John's heart. It made him feel guilty. Only Sherlock could make him feel guilty for dying.

There was a murmur of voices from outside the tent. Mycroft's pompous tone was discernible among the voices. John and Sherlock exchanged looks: Sherlock looked horrified and John continued to look apologetic.

"Sherlock, you are needed." Mycroft called out from a distance.

"Yes, Mycroft." Sherlock grumbled with no real malice. He was too exhausted to manage anything other than a defeated tone. He turned to look at John. John felt incredibly exposed under Sherlock's gaze.

"No need to worry about me." John lied, hoping to wipe that look off of Sherlock's face. "I'd rather be in here than out there dealing with Mycroft."

Sherlock's mouth twitched in an effort to fake a smile. It fell flat.

"Go on." John prompted, nodding towards the tent flap.

Sherlock sighed and hoisted himself to his feet. His uniform was wrinkled. There were bags under his bloodshot eyes, his hair was tangled and unkempt, there were lines on his face from where he had been lying against the seams of John's trousers, and he looked as though he was anticipating his own trip to the gallows. John cringed a bit.

"John, I…" Sherlock swallowed hard, the words raw and uncertain. "I l-"

"Finish that sentence and I'll slit your throat." John threatened. His threat had no real bite. A lump gathered at his throat.

Sherlock looked him over for a moment before nodding. He exited the tent without another word. John chose not to think about the fact that his last words to Sherlock had been a threat.

It wasn't that he wanted to threaten Sherlock - he had since moved on from the homicidal rage he had once directed at the man - he just couldn't stand to hear those words. Not now. Not when he was on his way to a place where Sherlock would not be joining him.

* * *

It took Mycroft and Sherlock's men a surprising amount of time to ready the gallows. John wondered if Mycroft was taking his time on purpose, giving his prisoner time to fret over the idea of death. It would be just like him to do.

When he seemed to finally decide that John had waited long enough, he sent two brutish soldiers to drag John out of the tent. They didn't seem to understand that John could walk perfectly fine on his own. One last insult before his death, he supposed.

As he approached the gallows - and inevitably, his noose - John chanced a look at Sherlock. He was staring at the floor of the gallow intently. John supposed that watching a few pieces of plywood was better than watching a friend hang.

The executioner placed the noose around John's neck and tightened it a bit. It wasn't very comfortable, but John supposed that comfort was now the very least of his worries. He took in a shaky breath, likely to be his last.

"At your leisure." Mycroft said to the executioner.

God, John didn't want those to be the last words he heard. He looked around for Sherlock a bit desperately. Now would be a good time for him to say the thing he hadn't been permitted to say in the tent. Except Sherlock wasn't anywhere to be seen. He had managed to slip away while John was distracted.

John supposed that he couldn't blame Sherlock for wanting to miss his execution, but he couldn't help but feel a bit abandoned.

"Right, mate," The executioner remarked as he readied himself. "May God be with you."

Oh, shit.

This was it.

This was the end of John Watson's life.

The lever was pulled and the floor opened beneath John's feet. The noose pressed up against his throat and then…

The noose broke.

 _The fucking noose broke._

John fell through the floor and landed with a loud 'thump'. He looked around stupidly.

"John!" Sherlock's voice hissed. John looked around the dark area wildly.

"Oh, for God's sake." A hand wrapped around John's and guided him underneath the floor. Before John knew it, he and Sherlock were standing behind the gallows.

While Mycroft shouted out instructions and soldiers bumbled about, Sherlock guided John through the woods. Within seconds, they were completely out of sight.

"Sherlock, how did you…?" The question died on John's lips as Sherlock continued to guide him through the woods.

"Thinned the rope when Mycroft wasn't looking." Sherlock called over his shoulder. "Where is he? He's got to be somewhere around here…"

"Right. Who are we looking for?" John demanded. His question was answered the moment that Redbeard came into sight. Beside him was a slightly taller and equally handsome horse.

"Hello, Redbeard." Sherlock greeted his favorite horse fondly. "John, you'll be taking Samson. He's Mycroft's horse. You don't mind, do you?"

"Mind?" John echoed incredulously. "Sherlock, I...you...we...that...you saved my life!"

"Mm, not quite. At present, I've just put my own life in danger. Saving your life will require you to get on the horse. You do know how to ride, don't you?"

"'course I do, you idiot. Where are we going?"

"I have no idea."

" _What do you mean you have no idea_?" John demanded.

"Well I have only had twenty-four hours to come up with this plan." Sherlock snapped.

"And it is a brilliant plan, Sherlock. Now we'll not only get charged with resisting execution and treason - we'll add _stealing Mycroft's bloody horse_ to our list of crimes."

"Alright, where do you think that we should go?" Sherlock questioned, his voice dripping with impatience.

"West."

"West? Wonderful idea, John. Instead of being slaughtered by the King's army, let's die at the hands of the natives."

"I'd rather face them than your bloody brother. They're actual humans. Mycroft...I'm not so sure."

"He isn't." Sherlock confirmed. "West it is."

"Glad that's settled. Or at least, it will be."

Both of the men mounted their respective horses and started off Westward. Neither had a single clue where in the West they would stop or what they would do when they stopped, but none of that really mattered. They were alive and it was glorious.

"Sherlock," John huffed as they rode through the woods. "Sherlock, I l-"

"Finish that sentence and I'll slit your throat."

John looked at Sherlock in surprise. Sherlock smirked. John burst into laughter. Sherlock was soon laughing along with him.

Both men were giddy off of the prospect of freedom. It all just made sense; perfect and complete sense. John had finally gained his independence and he was bringing Sherlock along for the ride.

 ** _The End_**


End file.
